


The (No Longer) Lone Ranger

by imoldgreg



Category: Brokeback Mountain (2005), Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: 1890s, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Bottom Credence Barebone, Bottom Newt Scamander, Bottom Original Percival Graves, By Credence Obviously, Cowboys, Daddy Kink, Dry Humping, Eventual Threesome, Everyone Is Into Switching, Extremely Dubious Consent, Feminised Credence, Fluff, Hair Pulling, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, Mirrors, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Outlaw Percival Graves, Percival Graves Loves His Horse, Period Typical Homophobia, Prostitute Credence Barebone, Religious Guilt, Sheriff Gellert Grindelwald, Top Credence Barebone, Top Newt Scamander, Top Original Percival Graves, Who Is A Total Asshole, Wild West AU, Wildlife Photographer Newt Scamander, eventual threeway relationship, mentions of past violence/trauma, rim jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 08:22:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imoldgreg/pseuds/imoldgreg
Summary: Percival Graves is a renowned outlaw.Newt Scamander is new to the job of wildlife photographer.And Credence is a cross-dressing prostitute.





	The (No Longer) Lone Ranger

**Author's Note:**

> So I played Red Dead Redemption 2.
> 
> I watched Brokeback Mountain.
> 
> And what did I take from those two experiences?
> 
> Gay cowboys are beyond valid.
> 
> (Also quick warning - it gets kinda dark halfway through as Percy has flashbacks to what happened to his former lover - violent but not graphic)
> 
> (Also also, i couldn’t really get to grips with the past and present money equivalencies, but google told me that basically $1 in today’s money was worth $26.37, so that gives you an idea of prices)

The one thing that really stood out about the man was the way he pronounced the word 'coyote'. Kye-oat. He kept saying kye-oat, even after Newt repeated it correctly.

“Coyote.”

“Kye-oat.”

It reminded Newt of how a child might say it, almost indignant in its delivery. Unwilling to be proven wrong. 

Newt couldn’t tell if it was just due to the thick southern drawl of his gruff voice, or lack of basic literacy, which wasn’t an impossibility out on the Plains. He stopped worrying about it when the man rolling his sleeves up and revealed thick, hairy forearms. A long and bulbous vein stood out under the tanned skin on each arm, splitting off into several raised lines of subtle blue over the backs of both of his massive hands. 

The man, the stranger, had come by on a liver spotted Shire that was far too big to be used for riding. He’d introduced himself when he’d spotted Newt fiddling with his camera, dismounting his horse and sidling up to him.

He could’ve killed him. Robbed him.

“Percival Graves,” the man had held out a calloused hand, a smile spreading over his weather worn face. His facial hair was just the side of too-long to be considered stubble, and too short to really be called a beard. Percival Graves didn’t wear a hat, and Newt found himself hesitating before finally shaking the hand outstretched to him.

“Mr Scamander,” he’d replied, a little coldly.

Percival Graves hadn’t seemed to notice his obvious bristling, and was looking around the clearing Newt had stood his camera in, now no longer in need of fixing.

Percival Graves eyed Newt's bag suspiciously, which sat a few feet away. A brown leather doctor’s briefcase. Cracked, and badly in need of a new handle.

“Your bag's bleedin', Mister,” Percival Graves had commented, and Newt felt impatience rising in his chest.

“It’s my bait, I’m trying to photograph predators in their natural habitat,” he couldn’t help the sharpness to his tone, and he scowled, gesturing testily for Percival Graves to move out of the clearing. “Animals won’t come if your dirty great boots are standing barely an inch away from their food.”

Percival Graves had narrowed his eyes at him a little, reminding Newt of the way his old cat used to look at him when he'd thrown the pieces of bird intestine she’d brought in back outside, but he moved obediently.

“Why don’t you just hunt them and mount them on your wall if you want proof of seein' em?” Percival Graves' question made Newt roll his eyes.

“I don’t enjoy killing animals for sport, Mr Graves, now if you’ll please go- oh God my bag! Come back here!” Newt's very rude dismissal was cut short by a coyote suddenly darting out from behind a scrub, snatching the blood soaked bag in its narrow, mottled jaws. It snarled at them, its tail bristling, before lolloping away as quickly as it could with such a large object clamped between its teeth.

Without a word, Percival Graves ran after it. Within barely five seconds of the creature taking flight, Percival Graves held it tightly by the scruff, hoisting it aloft as he brought it back to the clearing.

“Oh,” Newt breathed. He couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

Percival grinned broadly, the coyote wriggling and snarling and thrashing in his tight grip. The man didn’t even seem bothered, prizing the bag from its snapping jaws and handing it to Newt.

“Damn kye-oats always take whatever opportunity they can get, don’t leave your stuff unguarded.”

“Thank you, Percival,” Newt’s voice was still quiet, and he blinked as he stared at the bag, then at the still struggling coyote, and then at Percival.

“You want me to kill the little bastard?” the man pulled out the hunting knife from his belt, and Newt squeaked like a wounded bird.

“No!” he cried, lunging forward to take the furious coyote away from the shining silver blade, but the wild dog snapped at him, so he pulled back quickly, feeling foolish. Newt shook his head determinedly.

“Don’t kill it.”

“Well,” Percival eyed him with genuine distrust before quirking a brow. He held the coyote at arm’s length. “If you’re sure, Mister.”

There was a thump as the dog was dropped, and for a second Newt thought he’d made a terrible mistake, as it turned on both of them, its hackles raised, foaming angrily at the mouth.

But Percival took out his pistol, and before Newt could object he unloaded a shot into the ground right next to the canine’s left hind paw, making it jump almost a foot into the air and bolt at breakneck speed away from them.

Newt’s heart was hammering against his ribcage. Percival nonchalantly reholstered his gun.

“It would be best if you moved out of this area before bedding down, kye-oats aren’t like wolves but they do have good memories,” the man rolled up his sleeves as he spoke, and rubbed the grit off his hands onto the thick denim covering his thighs.

Newt nodded distractedly.

No one looked out for anyone out here. That just wasn’t how things worked. But yet here was this man, a complete stranger, Percival Graves, giving him advice after saving him from a coyote attack?

“i.. I have nothing to thank you with,” Newt stuttered, stupidly, suddenly very aware of how he wanted to look in front of this man. He shouldn’t care, he never normally did.

But here he was, so big, and broad, and hairy, and capable. And Newt was… Newt.

And his mind wouldn’t stop replaying that stupid pronunciation, over and over again, like the time his grandfather’s grammar phone broke and it kept replaying the same two second soundbite from Stephen Foster's ‘Camptown Races'.

“No need, but if those ugly critters give you any trouble again, I’ll attempt to be near,” Percival chuckled at his own joke, and unhitched his horse from a nearby tree. It was an empty promise – an unfunny Plains joke. Once you met someone out here it was unheard of to ever hear from them again.

Newt watched him go, his head feeling full of cotton, his movement slow as if he was trying to wade through treacle.

The man's horse matched his build perfectly in terms of muscle, but the Shire was tall and Percival was not, and it dumbfounded Newt how the man managed to sling his leg into a stirrup and pull himself up. Newt reckoned he himself would probably struggle with it, and he was of fairly good stature, at least a whole head taller than the man in front of him.

“So Mister Scamander, I bid you good day,” Percival tipped his head at Newt as if he was wearing a hat, golden eyes fixing him to the spot, towering over him now he was sat upon that great beast. It stomped one massive hoof down onto the dusty earth with a dull thud that Newt felt in his chest.

He swallowed dryly, internal frustration building as the dopey, crooked grin on the other man’s face rendered him embarrassingly useless. He mumbled a weak “you too” in return.

“Maybe stay away from kye-oats now hm?”

Before Percy had a chance to click his tongue and squeeze his spurs into the horse's sides, Newt snapped at him with a surge of questionably misplaced confidence.

“Coyotes,” he quipped, sounding mean. His brain wasn’t keeping up with the butterflies in his stomach.

Percival threw him a look that Newt couldn’t read.

“That’s what I said. Kye-oat,” and with that Percival Graves had jolted his horse into a canter that couldn’t have been comfortable due to the Shire's awkward loping run.

Newt shouted after him the correct way of pronouncing the word again, and he swore he heard the man's distant laughter on the wind.

\---

Percy shouldn’t have neglected himself for so long. Shouldn’t have let that terrible, sinful, unnatural need build up inside him until it was essentially festering.

Now, after something so mundane as a conversation with a handsome wildlife photographer earlier today had left him hard and aching, pumping spit slicked fingers in and out of himself like some kind of goddamn whore.

His back arched off the padded woolen bedroll beneath himself, his eyes fluttering shut. His teeth fastened onto his lower lip and bit hard.

The burn of his fingers inside himself made tears prickle beneath his eyelids, so he squeezed them tight. He wished he could’ve said the pain was bad, but it was so deliciously good and perfect and everything Percy had been needing for months and months and not let himself feel.

He sped up his movements, his right arm aching now, his canted legs shaking .

The air was cold against his prick when he tugged it out of his underwear and stroked himself quickly with his left hand. If he’d opened his eyes he would’ve seen his breath clouding against the dark, star spotted sky.

The crackling of the campfire dulled as he came, suddenly releasing as his fingers finally hit that thing inside of him, that spot that made all of his self hatred burn away in a flash of white hot pleasure.

The sound he made might’ve not even been human. He hoped it wasn’t. Far too high pitched for his liking.

When he opened his eyes again the moon glared back at him, its silvery light making the cum on his shirt gleam eerily. His breath was loud in the nighttime air, not even the constant chirping melody of the insects in the long grass drowning him out.

Percy cringed as he tucked himself away and pulled his jeans back up from where he’d shoved them halfway down his thighs. He pulled his furlined jacket back around him and buried himself in the woolen bedroll.

He scrunched himself up as small as he could, eyes staring blankly into the slowly dying embers of the fire. It didn’t provide any heat anymore, but the soft pops and shifts of ash were soothing. As Percy’s breathing evened out he found himself drifting, and much to his later dismay he found he dreamt about the man with the curly chestnut hair and the constellation of freckles over his skin that he’d meet earlier that day.

The man who’d corrected how he said the word coyote.

Percy woke up uncomfortably sweaty and with a terrible mood hanging over his head. It stayed with him all day, even after he’d bathed quickly in the freezing river water, and changed into his spare blue shirt. He found himself being unfair to Jesse, his loyal and worryingly old Shire, who snorted and tossed her head at him irritably when he tugged too hard at her mouth in his bad tempered state.

He robbed a lone farmhand at gunpoint. The poor man was out early, probably hoping to get his chores done quickly and receive some time off.

“I-I don't have anything sir, please!” his voice shook badly, stick thin limbs quivering like a lamb's. Percy cocked his gun, and took a step forward. He could smell the man's strong body odor, it caught unpleasantly in his nostrils.

“You’d better start cooperatin' or that poor farmer up there’s gonn come out in a few hours and find one of his workers fuckin' dead,” Percy sighed as he spoke, as if it was a chore for him to do this.

“Pl-please!” the man whimpered pitifully, and took a shaky step back to get out of Percy’s space, but caught his foot in the sod and landed heavily on his hands. He cried out like a child, and Percy rolled his eyes. He pressed his boot to the man’s chest and forced him down into the dirt, pushing the air from his lungs.

“Hand it over, I’m not known for my patience,” he growled, aiming the gun directly at the farm hand's face, and finally the man reached a scarred hand into a pocket and pulled out several cents and two one dollar bills.

Percy scrumpled them bodily out of his hand and shoved them in his own pocket.

After that he’d been sulking on his horse for at least an hour before he decided what to do. Jesse had been walking slowly, dipping her head to pull at the leaves on the shrubbery below, taking careful, lumbering steps with her great feathered hooves.

He knew why he was sulking. It had been months… he wasn’t quite sure how his balls weren’t blue at this point.

But Percy felt his eyes roll to the back of his head involuntarily when he thought about another uncomfortably forced triste with one of the whores in town, having to squeeze breasts he’d really rather not and take on a role he’d really rather someone else did.

But there was one. Percy knew there was one. Playing the part of a female down even to the makeup, but all the locals knew what really hid under that deep red skirt with its pretty lace petticoat.

Percy sniffed in his resolve, and regathered the reins.

Credence. He’d go see Credence.

\---

It was a slow night at the saloon. The smell of the oil lamps made his head swim a little, and he was sat with his chin resting on his palm, his elbow on the bar, impatiently tapping his half empty glass, looking pretty as ever, might he add.

Credence wasn’t used to waiting.

The blacksmith had bought him a drink, spoken with him for a while, but Credence’s heart was only half in it when he trailed his painted nails lightly down the man's chest. Locals never let him play, he was more of an inside joke to see which travelers he could fool into going upstairs with him. Occasionally there were one or two regular faces who threatened him with a bullet in his cheek if he dared tell anyone. He never did.

But there had been no one new tonight, for the first time in months, and Credence tried not to frown as he watched Queenie, Tina and Sera all lead hopelessly drunken men upstairs at various points in the night. It was a slow night for them too – normally they’d be going up and down that staircase more times than anyone could count.

And normally Credence would’ve bedded at least three once-respectable gentlemen by now, or at the very least been able to tease a little.

So even though one of the house rules was 'don't frown', Credence couldn’t help but scowl, slumping over the bar as he folded his arms on the wood, and let his chin rest on the crook of his elbow. He didn’t look appealing like this, and the way his arms were folded made the muscles under his skin more prominent.

“Credence,” the man behind the bar gave him a warning, drying a glass with a dirty rag.

“Fuck off-“

“Mind if I sit here, young lady?” a gruff voice broke Credence from his hissed retort at the bartender, and he turned quickly, his mouth open stupidly. He felt like when he’d been caught stealing a biscuit from his mother’s special tin, back when he was little. Man, he hadn’t been able to sit down for weeks after-

“Uh.. sure, yes, sit here,” Credence hastily replied, sitting up and trying to make himself presentable again. His knee shook a little from the interruption.

“Now why's a pretty thing like you sat here all by your lonesome?” the man next to him ordered two fingers of whiskey, and downed it without so much as batting an eyelid.

Credence’s eyes narrowed a little, and he felt himself smile. Only one man took whiskey like that.

“Percy?”

The man nodded, his golden eyes darting unconsciously around the room. No one was watching them, besides perhaps the barman, who hid it well if he was , his attention apparently more focused on cleaning glasses.

Now Credence relaxed, his smile genuine, the fingers resting lightly against Percy’s knee - teasing. He could see it now; the eyes, the thick brows above them, the dark hair. Of course it was him.

“It’s been too long cowboy, I hardly recognise you! How’re the Plains treating you?”

Percy kept his fingers resting on his empty glass, but Credence noticed the way his eyes darted momentarily to the hand on his knee.

“It’s hard out there, often think about coming back,” he replied, his thick accent washing over Credence in a wave of warm familiarity.

He smiled prettily, slid his hand further up Percy’s thigh, and then dragged it back down, rubbing soothingly. Testing.

“You should, I'd like that,” he purred, leaning closer. He knew how he looked. It took a lot of willpower for men to resist him, at least in his experience anyway, but Percy had somehow always managed. Never letting Credence get his fill, only teasingly flirting, maybe a peck on the cheek. But Percy always looked so good, and God, Credence had missed that earthy smell, those thick fingers, that unreadable face hiding uneducated but still somehow incredibly wise thoughts.

Credence always craved what he couldn’t have, and Percy was like a forbidden fruit he wanted to sink he teeth into, tear apart slowly, lap his tongue over the soft skin and bite.

“I know you would darlin' ,” Percy mumbled quietly, and didn’t pull away when Credence brought his free hand up to play with Percy’s collar, the other still rubbing his thigh.

“Aren’t you gonna buy a lady a drink?” Credence grinned, his voice teasing, and Percy let out a gruff chuckle before ordering them both a Mule Skinner.

It burnt Credence’s tongue and made him wrinkle his nose.

“You’re just showing off, drinking shit like this,” he spat his back out into his glass as neatly as he could, and caught his breath when Percy ran the calloused pad of his thumb over his bottom lip, catching a drop before it fell.

When he tried to take the thick digit into his mouth, the man pulled his hand away, and placed it upon the bar. Always such a tease.

“Swearin’ ain’t very lady-like of you, Credence,” Percy quirked an eyebrow, smirking. Credence pushed his hand further up Percy’s thigh. Percy didn’t push him off, and Credence was close enough to him to catch the stutter in his breathing.

His free hand cupped the side of Percy’s jaw, running a thumb delicately over his cheek, the scratch of his beard harsh under his soft skin. Credence brought himself even closer, until their faces were barely an inch apart. Percy’s eyes flickered down to Credence’s lips without meaning to, and he clenched his jaw. Credence felt the muscle pulsate as it tightened under his hand.

“How long has it been cowboy?” Credence whispered against the man’s lips, keeping his eyes lidded, the hand on Percy’s thigh squeezing gently, his thumb rubbing circles into the space just below his crotch. Credence could feel the tightness of the material already. So responsive.

“Too long,” Percy breathed, sounding far too wrecked for the chaste situation he was in. It made heat curl at the base of Credence’s spine.

Percy’s large hands stayed almost white knuckled against the bar, until Credence gently lifted one, and brought it to his mouth. When he wrapped his lips prettily around one finger he combined the action with the hand on Percy’s thigh moving higher, cupping the noticeable bulge there. Percy’s breathing caught in his throat, and he stared at Credence with far too much innocence in those dark eyes, his mouth slightly open.

When Credence took a second finger into his mouth and simultaneously started to gently rub his palm over Percy’s clothed erection, the man suddenly seemed to come to himself.

He pulled his hand away from Credence’s mouth, albeit slowly, and roughly took hold of Credence’s wrist, stilling the hand on his crotch. Credence felt himself whine petulantly. He’d got so far, he just wanted a taste, one taste and he’d leave him alone-

“Go upstairs. I’ll meet you in two minutes.”

Credence doubted he’d ever moved so fast in his life. He walked up to his usual room, practically glowing. Finally, Percy was letting him touch, finally he was letting him play. Credence had fantasized about this moment ever since he’d first met Percy five years ago in this very same bar.

He took off the dress and the underskirt and the stockings, until he was sat in just white undergarments – soft and lacy and pretty. He touched up his makeup in the mirror, let his hair down out of the long braid that rested down his back, and it flowed nicely in thick, dark curls.

Percy came in definitely not two minutes later, and Credence couldn’t stop himself smirking as he watched him in the mirror from his seat at the vanity . Percy couldn’t count past forty, and there were no clocks in the saloon.

“Eager?” he questioned, his voice teasing, and Percy actually flushed, sitting down on the end of the bed and wringing his hands.

Credence frowned a little and stood up from the stool, walking over and kneeling in front of Percy’s feet on the floor, his hands resting gently on his knees.

“Is everything alright?” he almost whispered, looking up through his lashes at him. He’d never figured Percy would be the shy type.

“Yeah, fine,” Percy grunted, but his face was red.

Credence quirked a brow and climbed onto the bed, straddling Percy’s thighs. He’d dealt with hapless virgins and curiously silent oddballs before who’d told him everything was fine when in actual fact they wanted to wrap their sweaty hands around his pale neck and squeeze until he could barely breathe. It was always the freaks who were quiet, the ones who’s sexual fantasies were so sordid and so perverse they had to keep them hidden. Credence really hadn’t taken Percy for one of them.

“If you wanna do something weird to me, I don’t mind. I’ve seen it all, you can’t shock me,” Credence spoke quietly, cradling Percy’s head against his bare chest, running his hands through his hair soothingly.

Percy’s hands gently rested on Credence’s hips, but he made no move to do anything.

Credence tried again, cupping Percy’s face in his hands and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He pulled away, making Percy meet his eyes.

“Is it hitting? You can punch me if you want. Or you can tie me up. I don’t mind if you bite, or scratch, or want to call me your ex wife’s name, or pretend I’m your daughter. Please Percy, tell me, I really don’t mind,” his voice was soothing, but Percy looked shocked at what Credence suggested. He gently squeezed Credence’s hips to move him off his lap, and sighed heavily.

“I don’t know if I should tell you what I want Credence, it's.. not what you’d expect,” Percy’s voice was thick, as if he was about to cry, and Credence draped himself over his back, pressing kisses to the side of his head. He rubbed deep circles into Percy’s shoulders and down his sides, and he felt the man groan a little as his muscles relaxed.

“Tell me Percy, I promise I won’t tell another soul til the day I die,” he whispered against the shell of his ear, and Percy let his head fall back against Credence’s shoulder, his eyes squeezed closed. His hands were fisted against his thighs so tightly the skin was going white.

Credence expected Percy to describe some kind of perverted fantasy he wanted to role-play, like perhaps he wanted Credence to pretend to be his mother and discipline him, or maybe he wanted Credence to pretend to be a dead body, lying limp and silent on the mattress while Percy fucked him.

But he didn’t.

In fact what Percy wanted made Credence’s cock jump almost instantly, heat pooling between his legs at the very idea.

“I-I.. I want.. I want you to.. fuck me.. like how a man would.. fuck a lady,” Percy barely even whispered it, his voice catching in that telltale way. When he reopened his eyes a tear spilled out of the left one, and Credence melted.

He moved round to Percy’s side, cupping his face again and swiping the tear away gently with his thumb, kissing him chastely and sweetly. Percy clung to his arms, kissing back as though his life depended on it. When Credence pulled away Percy's lips were smeared red from his lipstick. He gazed at Credence with anxious eyes. It was like holding an injured puppy, and Credence’s heart ached for him.

“Of course I’ll do that Percy, and no one outside of this room is gonna know about it, okay?” Credence smiled gently as Percy smiled a little tearfully, blinking quickly to avoid anymore embarrassment.

Credence found him so endearing, and he never got to go on top, so it wasn’t surprise that he was rock hard already.

But this wasn’t about him. Credence wanted to focus on Percy, wanted to take him apart piece by piece until that strong, tough exterior melted away to the gentle puppy Credence had glimpsed underneath.

They’d discuss prices afterwards.

\---

Percy couldn’t stop his hands from shaking as he let Credence undress him, his red painted nails clicking every so often against the buttons on his shirt. He tried to take deep breaths, but they came out shuddery, and he sounded weak. His cheeks burned as Credence peeled the shirt from his sweating body, sitting up on his elbows to help ease the suspenders off his shoulders.

“Relax daddy, I'm gonna take good care of you,” Credence leaned over him, sliding those pretty little hands over his chest, his thumb catching on one of Percy’s nipples. It made his breath catch in his throat, and he bit his lip.

This wasn’t Percy’s first time. Back when he was younger he’d been careless, flirting riskily with almost every man he met. Some were like him, but others were not. He’d been chased out of his own home town and the neighbouring city because of his whorish ways, and since then he’d maybe had three partners to bed with him since. Three partners in a span of ten years. It didn’t do good on his temperament.

“Sorry, I’m just.. not used to this,” he muttered, his voice shaking. Percy cursed himself for sounding so vulnerable, but Credence smiled above him.

When they kissed it was slow until it wasn’t, and then it was teeth and tongue and spit and hands grasping at places Percy really shouldn’t enjoy them grasping at, but he did, Jesus Christ, he did. Credence separated the kiss only to move down to his chest, sucking at his nipples and squeezing his ass like Percy remembered doing to the girls he used to sleep with before he knew what he was.

“Fuck,” he gasped at the hot press of Credence’s tongue against his skin, his voice sounding strained. His cock was throbbing against the confines of his trousers, and he wound his hands in Credence’s long hair and pulled.

Credence gave a breathy moan at the rough treatment, letting his head be tugged back up and crashing their lips together once more. Percy moaned into the kiss as Credence’s hands traveled further down, palming him a few times to make Percy’s back arch, and then pulled his trousers down in one hard tug.

“You want it this way, so you can see me Percy? Or you wanna get fucked like a real woman, face down ass up, huh?” Credence’s breathy voice was hot against his ear, their bodies pressed tight against each other, the hard bones of Credence’s corset digging into his skin uncomfortably.

The young man on top of him made it difficult to answer, his hand stroking teasingly along Percy’s length, thumb brushing the head and squeezing ever so slightly. Percy breathed out hard through his nose, blinking quickly. This wasn’t fair, how was Credence so good at this? When he stroked himself on those late, unbearably lonely nights when the need grew too much, it was rough, and quick, and barely even registered as pleasure, more of just a satisfying pulse through his body.

But the way Credence was toying with him, the filthy words falling from his swollen, painted lips – it was enough to make him go mad, and he felt his toes curl, and bit back a moan when Credence sped up.

“Like a real woman,” he croaked out, and he saw Credence’s pretty mouth split into a wide grin, his dark eyes glittering with excitement. It sent a shiver through Percy’s body, and he couldn’t hold back the needy whine when Credence let go of his prick.

“Shh daddy, it’s ok,” the young man purred gently, easing Percy over onto his stomach , pressing his body back up against him so his bare chest stuck to the sweat on Percy’s shoulder blades.

From there, Credence ground his crotch a few times against the plush curve of Percy’s ass, making him squirm a little, his breathing picking up, before kissing slowly down his spine, lowering himself until his face was level with his cheeks. Percy flushed and fisted his hands in the sheets as Credence squeezed his cheeks and parted them. His heart was beating loud in his chest and he swore he could’ve jolted right off the bed when he felt the first insistent press of wet tongue to his hole.

He’d forgotten what it felt like, to be probed open and tasted like some kind of sensitive fruit, and as much as he tried to stay together, Percy came undone embarrassingly quickly.

He hid his face in the crook of his elbow as he felt Credence press his face fully against his ass, that tongue lapping and entering and playing with his hole, making him loose and wet. Percy’s thighs were quivering like a colt’s, unable to hold back the too-high moan that shuddered out of him. He’d missed this sort of attention being lavished upon him, and greedily he pushed his hips back for more, panting with the effort of staying quiet.

When he caught his own reflection’s eye in the full body mirror stood opposite the bed he thought he might cry. His hair was disheveled, falling over his forehead like some sort of pretty boy, his face was red, his back shining with sweat, and his face was so helpless looking he wondered how anyone could ever be scared of him. His ass was in the air, his chest pressed to the mattress, a brilliant arch to his spine. Credence was knelt behind him, his nails digging into the meat of his ass to keep his cheeks spread apart.

He let Credence’s mouth ravish his hole until he pulled away and blew a soft breath over the now spit slicked area, making Percy jolt and bite back a moan. He watched in the mirror as Credence leant over to the nightstand beside the bed and pulled out a small green glass bottle, keeping one hand on Percy’s ass to keep him spread, but let his hips collapse onto the bed. He shuffled a little, rolling his hips against the mattress.

Credence drizzled whatever type of oil was in the bottle onto his fingers, and he let it drip down Percy’s crack and over his balls, swirling his finger around his hole and very slowly pushing his now oiled middle finger inside him.

Percy held onto the sheets again, sucking in a breath as he was easily breached, the oil working as a much better lubricant than spit.

“That feel good, daddy?” Credence purred from behind him, who now was also watching Percy in the mirror, fingering him slowly and methodically until he added a second finger.

The stretch made Percy moan, and Credence was excellent at angling his hand just right to tease that spot inside him, making his hips roll and his toes curl, his breathing becoming heavier. His cock throbbed angrily from where it was trapped tightly between his body and the mattress, and he whined, desperate for more.

“Please, Credence,” he breathed out, biting his knuckles when the boy obediently added a third finger, starting to speed up a little, thrusting his fingers in and out, brushing against that spot but never hitting it, driving Percy insane.

He moaned like a whore, pushing his hips back, and his skin shivered when Credence slid a hand up his sweaty back to grip in his hair. It forced his head up and he watched himself in the reflective glass, his ears burning at the sight of himself - three fingers deep in his ass and loving it. No, Percy was even greedy enough to ask for more.

So Credence pulled his fingers out, and knelt up behind Percy’s hips. Percy’s eyes widened involuntarily when Credence pulled his cock out from the lacy white underwear he had on. It was bigger than his own, and the sick sense of humiliation that came with that fact made him impossibly harder.

Credence drooled more oil onto his impressive member, sliding his hand over himself a few times, his fat lower lip caught between his teeth and his brows knotting together in concentration. Percy gazed at him in the mirror. He was sinfully beautiful. 

When Credence pushed into him it was slow, and once again the boy pressed his body up against his back, placing his pale, delicate hands over Percy’s own thick, clumsy ones, holding them tightly to the bed. It made Percy’s face heat up to see such feminine hands with such prettily painted nails belonging to a body with such a large, thick cock attached to it.

When he was fully sheathed inside of him Percy was struggling for breath, his legs shaking. He’d never felt so full.

“You want it slow daddy?” Credence whispered in his ear, the slight hint of a moan to the last word the only hint that he was affected by this.

Percy swallowed wetly, arching his back and bringing Credence impossibly deeper inside himself, making him cry out vulnerably.

“Oh God, Credence,” Percy could’ve sobbed, his grip tightening on the sheets beneath him, and in turn Credence’s hands tightened around his own.

“Tell me what you want daddy,” Credence punctuated each word by a roll of his hips, and Percy felt his eyes roll back, pleasure sparking through him. He wasn’t going to last long.

“Fuck.. fast, please. I need it hard,” he whimpered, ashamed of his own filthy mouth but unable to focus on it as Credence sat up a little, moving his hands to either side of Percy’s head to support his weight, and fucked him.

And Jesus Christ, could the boy fuck well. He pushed in to the base and pulled out until the edge of the tip caught on Percy’s rim, before pushing all the way back in again, punching the air from his lungs at a bed shaking speed.

Percy was loud, he knew he was, and he tried to hide his face in the crook of his elbow, but Credence gripped the back of his hair and tugged his head back up. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Credence looked incredible. His makeup had smudged just enough to verge on depraved, and he leaned down to bite a big, lipstick stained bruise into Percy’s shoulder, making him choke on a sob.

Despite Percy being much heavier than Credence, the boy’s thrusts were powerful, and he jolted at each one, the bed banging against the wall in such an obviously suggestive rhythm it made his skin burn. He shut his eyes and bit his lip hard, but then Credence gave a particularly mean thrust, and Percy cried out like wounded animal.

“You like that daddy?” Credence moaned, barely able to speak coherently himself, his grip on Percy’s hair tightening.

And oh God he did like it. He loved it. He watched in the mirror as Credence split him in two and fucked him until he felt hot tears spilling down his cheeks.

It should’ve been wrong – a boy years younger than himself, wearing makeup and women’s underwear, fucking him like this; pulling his hair, making him cry.

But maybe it was the very wrongness of it that sent Percy over the edge, made him cum hard, untouched, spilling over his chest and the sheets below. He saw stars and his whole body convulsed, his face the very picture of what pastors in church warned people of. The dangers of sodomy.

Credence must’ve released inside him during Percy’s mental blackout, as the next thing he was aware of was Credence carefully sliding out of his ass, and tucking himself away.

He sat next to Percy’s exhausted form on the bed, and ran his hands over the sweating skin, relaxing him further. Percy thought he might melt under those pretty hands. The back of his head ached dully. There were lipstick stains over his shoulder, and the bruise was turning purple. He ran his fingers lightly over it and felt the indents where Credence had sank his teeth in. The thought of it made his stomach flutter.

“I'll give you privacy to get dressed,” Credence mumbled after a few minutes, and kissed the top of Percy’s head gently as he stood up. He moved to gather up his dress from the floor, but Percy sat up clumsily, and caught Credence’s hand with his.

He didn’t know what provoked the sudden fear gripping his chest, or the lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow down. He wasn’t sure what on Earth possessed him to speak next, his voice trembling like a child’s.

“Please stay.”

\---

Credence had a personal rule to never let a client stay the night. That rule went out the window the second he saw Percy’s eyes; wide, almost scared looking, like a deer's.

He agreed to let him stay, and Percy helped unlace his corset as Credence brushed his hair back into the braid he liked it keep it in.

And once under the covers, Credence held him. He held Percy, the man who’d been so reserved and so stoic and so strong for so long, he held him with his head cradled to his chest and his lips pressed to his dark hair, running smooth fingers over his bare shoulders.

Percy was so vulnerable – he’d opened himself up to Credence quite literally, bared a part of himself that had only been seen by.. how many men? Credence only ever remembered Percy accidentally telling him about one when he’d drank too much, and that was three years ago.  
But then in the morning Credence tried not to let it sting that Percy was gone. Of course he was. He wouldn’t have wanted the uncomfortable morning small talk, the awkward walk downstairs and the knowing nod from the bar tender. It was easier this way - now he could rebuild that gruff, unmoving façade without having to remind himself that someone had seen through it.

Credence tried not to smell the pillow where Percy had lay. The gleam of silver on his nightstand caught his attention, and he sat up against the headboard.

The wad of rolled up notes was exactly $45 and 68¢, a little more than Credence would’ve liked to have charged him, but he took it and slotted it into the lockbox under his bed all the same.

He dolled himself up, dressed in a lighter dress of pale blue, and went downstairs to meet Queenie and the girls, who’d decided to go for a trip into the city for a few nights, and drum up a little more business.

He didn’t tell them who was with him last night, or what happened.

He deliberately didn’t think about Percy, because it made his stomach clench in an unfamiliar way.

\---

Jesse's heavy grunting made Percy’s stomach clench. He’d pushed her too hard in his escape, and now she was exhausted. She wasn’t exactly an easy creature to hide either, and her mottled cream and liver coat stood out boldly against the dense trees.

He lay on his stomach in the undergrowth, sticks and rocks digging uncomfortably into his skin through the fabric of his shirt. A month too early, winter was starting to creep in before fall even had a chance to strike, greenery turning bare rather than into that crisp, golden orange Percy loved to see.

He’d left his furlined jacket and waistcoat back in the camp he’d pitched, and when the Hunters came he had to leave everything and go. All his food, his whiskey, even his damn cooking pots were back there. They’d probably torched his tent and bedroll. He grimaced at the amount of money that had been in his coat pockets.

He shivered, his breath clouding out in front of him – there was no breeze but the air itself was icy. There had been frost last night, and the sky above was a dark grey. It promised snow.

The thunderous beating of thoroughbred hooves against the dry ground jerked Percy back to his present fear, and he held his breath as the group of maybe five or six cowboys came to a halt just at the edge of the forest, their horses rearing angrily. It was too dense for them to enter, and they swore and spat on the ground.

The red paint splattered messily over their horses' dark flanks was luminous against the dull, wintery background – a haphazard skull in a wobbly circle. The mark only Bounty Hunters wore.

Percy had been wreaking havoc, taking part in not only a train robbery but a bank heist and several shootouts in the middle of towns. Now a combination of three towns and one city had his face postered all over their walls, with his bounty totaling up to a staggering $300.

The thick black ink above his picture read 'Dead or Alive'. It seemed the Hunters thought Dead would be easier.

Jesse lifted her great head and Percy held his breath. She was a giant, standing at almost 18 hands high at the withers.

There was a heart stopping moment where after four of the cowboys had galloped off to skirt around the edges of the wood, one remained, his head angled to where Jesse was. She was a recognisable horse – tied to him with almost as high a bounty as himself. Breeders wanted her for her height and her uncommon coat, investors wanted her for her strength and surprising speed despite her weight.

But then one of the Hunters that had galloped off shouted something over the hill he’d disappeared over, and the remaining cowboy turned his horse with a painful looking jerk and cantered off, following the voice.

Percy released the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, rolling over onto his back and laughing out of sheer relief.

“That could’ve been it Jesse! That could’ve been us done for,” he laughed, and Jesse pressed her velvety muzzle against his chest, snuffing loudly in the way she did when she was happy to see him.

“But you ran like the wind didn’t you girl? Yes you did, yes you did!” Percy didn’t realise he’d slipped into his baby-talking voice, sitting up and rubbing his palms over his horse's huge face, scratching the itchy spot just behind her ear. He only realised when a vaguely familiar voice called out from between the trees.

“Percival Graves?”

Percy jumped up quickly and spun around, making Jesse jump a little, his hand reaching for his pistol automatically.

The nervous looking figure of Newt stepped out from behind a tree, his hands held up awkwardly. He looked as if he might feint.

“Oh sorry,” Percy grunted, reholstering his gun a little sheepishly. Newt lowered his arms, clasping his hands in front of his chest. He didn’t try to move any closer.

“You’re Mister Scamander, right? The wildlife photographer?”

Newt nodded, relief spreading over his face and his shoulders lowering from his ears.

“Yes, yes that’s me. I recognised your voice Percival,” Newt’s voice sounded a little out of breath, but he smiled brightly enough. “And your horse.”

Percy nodded, setting his jaw. He couldn’t quite find anything to say, his brain going blank. Newt hadn’t had this affect on him before, instead he’d caught his attention so suddenly that Percy had had an abundance to say, possibly too much even, but now it was quite the opposite.

“I’m photographing wolves this time, Percival,” Newt informed him, rather suddenly, and Percy’s eyes widened.

“Wolves? Are you trynna get yourself killed, Mister Scamander?” he chuckled a little, but the overall delivery of his words were off. They sounded almost like a threat, and Newt’s face fell. Percy had a sudden desperate urge to apologise, but instead he blurted out, “I’ll stay with you, protect you if things get out of hand.”

Newt softened again, and smiled warmly at him.  
“Oh you’re such a gentleman Percival,” the fondness in his voice made Percy clench his jaw. He tried very hard not to focus on it as he walked close to Newt towards a new clearing by the edge of the woods where his camera stood.

“You don’t know me very well Mister Scamander, I’m anythin' but,” he grunted, and Newt actually laughed. The corners of Percy’s mouth pulled upwards involuntarily, and he was thankful for the thick beard that he now sported. Shaving hadn’t really been top of his priority this past month – he’d barely seen his reflection since the night spent with Credence.

“Well, maybe you don’t realise yourself how polite you are sir,” Newt shook his head, smiling as he stood behind his camera and adjusted something.

Percy grunted non-descriptly in response, crouching down beside Newt and drawing his revolver ready. A thick hunk of bloody flesh hung from a very low branch of a tree in the centre of the clearing, dripping slowly onto the earth below.

He cocked his gun when a huge grey creature appeared between the trees. Two others slinked after it, one a darker grey than the other two. The biggest one reared up onto its hind legs, its massive black forepaws resting against the trunk. It sniffed the meat with its long jowls, licking its chops with a huge black tongue.

Newt was muttering excitedly to himself, practically vibrating next to Percy. The loud click and flash of the camera when he took the picture made the two smaller wolves jump, and the big one dropped back onto all fours with a dull thud, its hackles raised.

“Newt,” Percy growled low in warning as the two smaller ones moved on either side of them, barking and snarling viciously, whilst the larger one stayed in the clearing, slowly moving closer to the camera.

“One second, I just need one or two more,” the chestnut haired man said, panic clear in his voice as yet another loud click and a flash sent the wolves into a frenzy.

Percy no longer waited for Newt’s approval, standing quickly and firing a bullet into the wolf's head that had started to charge on his side, and then turned and shot the one coming for Newt in the shoulder. Once, twice, this time in the soft flesh of its belly, the smaller wolf finally hit the ground in a bloody crumpled heap.

The largest one tore Newt’s camera out of the ground and flung it across the clearing with its massive jaws, foam spilling out between its pearly teeth as it charged straight for Newt.

The man yelled in fear and fell back against a tree, cowering behind his arms as the wolf crouched, sprang up, jaws barely a second away from crushing his skull –

Percy watched it happen in slow motion, his own movements feeling as if he was trying to run underwater. He dived into the wolf's unprotected side, tearing it out of the air and slamming it into the ground about a foot away. It thrashed wildly, barking and snarling, and fastened its terrible fangs around his forearm before Percy finally took the hunting knife from his belt. He slit its throat, and suddenly everything returned to real time.

The huge mass of dark grey fur lay limp beneath him, blood leaking from the tear in its neck. Percy tugged his arm away from its mouth, groaning through gritted teeth at the pain. His arm was punctured in several places, blood smeared over it.

He threw his knife to a side and stood, staggering slightly as he moved over to Newt’s shaking figure slumped by the tree.

“Percival you.. you saved my life!” Newt gasped, taking Percy’s outstretched hand gratefully to help him stand to his feet. He was shaking badly, and when he caught sight of Percy’s arm he covered his mouth with his hands, his face etched in concern.

“Jesus Christ your arm! Let me help!”

When Newt reached towards him Percy pulled away a little too quick.

“It’s fine, just a scratch. Now I really should be on my way, Mister Scamander,” Percy grunted, barely even forming coherent words. He tried to walk back to where he thought he’d left Jesse, but a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Percival, before I started this unsuccessful life as a wildlife photographer, I was a doctor, a healer. Come on, I’ve got medical supplies back at my camp, it’s really no trouble. In fact I want to, to say thank you properly.”

\---

The puncture wounds in Percival’s arm were not as deep as he’d feared, so Newt bathed them gently in fresh water from the river, and rubbed a tonic into them that made the man hiss like a frightened animal. Then he bound the arm carefully in a bandage, and shared a drink of brandy with him to distract him from the pain.

All of this was of course done to the tune of Percival’s complaining, insisting he was fine and he should really go. Newt had to hide his grin, ducking his head as he bandaged the arm so Percival wouldn’t see. He tried not to let his fingers linger too long on the thick muscle, coughing and sitting up to draw his attention elsewhere.

He didn’t want to scare the man away, but somehow that didn’t seem too likely, as when he’d suggested Percival stay at his camp that night the man hadn’t objected.

“If you’re sure that’s okay, Mister Scamander, Bounty Hunters burnt my old one to the ground.”  
Newt insisted that it was more than ok. Perfect, even.

So Percival went to fetch his liver spotted Shire from the trees (Jesse, Newt discovered it was called) and he hitched her beside where Newt's two draft horses were grazing, the cart he traveled in parked up just next to them.

“So you said Bounty Hunters destroyed your camp,” Newt started carefully later that night as they were both huddled around the fire. He stirred the stew he’d prepared earlier, his mouth watering at the smell.

He caught the dark look Percival shot him with.  
“Now don’t you go cryin' to no sheriff Mister Scamander, I saved your life remember,” Percival’s voice almost verged on panic in its suddenly aggressive tone, but Newt raised a calming hand, locking eyes with the man.

“No, no, I would never. I'm in your debt now Percival,” Newt reassured him, and he saw Percival's hackles lay back down, the man’s shoulders hunching a little self consciously. Barely noticeable, but Newt caught it.

“I was going to ask you why they’re after you.”  
The orange glow of the fire made Percival’s skin look softer than it was, and the man scratched a hand through his beard, longer than the last time he saw him, almost over a month ago.

The gentle chirruping of insects in the long grass lulled them both, and Percival huddled in Newt’s spare pelt jacket gratefully. The man's face softened, and Newt shuffled closer to him.

“I’m not a criminal, Mister Scamander,” he began firmly, moistening his lips. Newt's eyes followed the dart of pink tongue unintentionally. He tried to keep his breathing steady.

“I’ve just fallen in with a couple o' folk who happen to live on the wrong side of the law, and people like us, we have to survive too. So if you ain’t got a fancy city education, or any kinda real workin’ skill, you won’t get paid nearly enough to live on. And why shouldn’t we deserve to live nicely, just because people won’t hire us?” Percival rubbed his eyes with the backs of his wrists, taking a deep breath. He turned to Newt. “I just did a couple bad things – for money, not for pleasure, not because I wanted to. That doesn’t make me a bad person.”

Newt listened, watching Percival intently. He seemed desperate to convince Newt he wasn’t a lowlife. Vaguely Newt pretended it was because Percival was trying to impress him, make him feel safe around him. He knew that wasn’t the case. Hell, he’d probably wake up tomorrow with half his stuff gone, bound up to a tree.

He nodded, and served up the stew, and they ate quietly. Percival was more hungry than he’d lead Newt to believe, and wolfed down his bowl faster than Newt could even dish it out.

That night, while Newt was cosily wrapped in his deer skin bedroll, safely tucked away in his tent, he could hear Percival shivering. The man had insisted on sleeping outside with only Newt’s borrowed jacket as his blanket.

Newt rolled his eyes and climbed out of the tent, only in his union suit. The cold air hit him like a freight train and he folded his arms tightly across his chest. There was no moon out tonight, and the stars were covered by the thick clouds that bulged with snow or icy rain, so he could only see by the dying embers of the fire.

He nudged a shaking dark lump that he assumed was Percival.

“Come on, get inside,” he whispered, and this time the man didn’t argue, and the lump crawled into the tent without a word.

Newt joined him, pulling the tent flap closed and wrapping them both in the deer skin. There wasn’t really enough room for them both to lay side by side – it was a one man tent, after all – so, without being prompted to, Percival latched himself around Newt, so that his clothed chest pressed up against Newt’s back.

Percival’s hands were freezing, and his clothes smelt of Outside, so Newt held his hands over Percival’s to warm them up.

Percival shed his borrowed jacket about twenty minutes later, and Newt took a risk when the man lay back behind him again, and pushed his rear back against his crotch. He kept his eyes closed incase Percival saw he was awake, praying that he would reciprocate.

He wondered if Percival could feel how fast his heart was pumping against his ribcage cage.

When no response came Newt pushed his hips back again, rolling them back in careful, minute circles against Percival’s crotch. The man’s arms squeezed around his chest tightly, and Newt froze. Was Percival going to kill him?

But his fear melted away as Percival pressed back up against Newt’s ass, his crotch tight and hard. Newt tried to stop himself smirking, and let Percival roll his hips against him.

The consistent pressure of Percival’s straining erection against his cleft in slow, rolling motions made Newt squirm, his own cock tenting the crotch of his union suit.

When Percival sped up, starting to breathe heavily, grunting at each thrust, Newt risked pulling his own cock free, and rubbed himself in time with Percival's hips.

The man's grip around him grew tighter, his thrusts more desperate, his grunts becoming endearingly vulnerable sounding moans - he reminded Newt of the dog he used to own as a child that would hump his leg, or the foot stools in the drawing room, or his little sister's stuffed bear collection.

Newt timed his climax perfectly with Percival’s, and he tucked himself away while the man was still panting against his neck, hot and wet and breathy. The idea that he’d just made Percival cum in his pants sent a little shiver through his body, and he snuggled down deeper into the man's embrace.

He drifted off easily, his orgasm tiring him out due to the late hour.

\---

Scrubbing at his skin in the freezing river water wasn’t enough to distract himself from that awful niggling feeling in his stomach. Even when he tore the bandage off his arm and scrubbed at the weak scabs covering the wound, it wasn’t enough.

Percy felt terrible. He wasn’t even sure why. He should’ve been thrilled – the handsome man with pretty ginger curls and a crooked smile was like him. What they did last night, what he was sure Newt had initiated, it should’ve made his heart flutter, not sank his skin in this awful, immovable feeling of dread.

He splashed more freezing water on his face, his skin shuddering like a horse's. He was completely naked besides his boots; he’d kept them on to protect the soft soles of his feet from being shredded by the sharp stones laying on the river bed.

He shaved with his hunting knife and the very last of the shaving oil he kept in his belt. He nicked his skin in several places, but he didn’t realise until he rubbed a wet hand over his chin, and the water ran red over his fingers.

Newt appeared next to him with a bowl of something steaming. He eyed Percy’s arm warily. Percy deliberately didn’t look at him as he crouched in the shallows of the river, washing the blood from his chin, probably looking like some kind of crazy, naked wild man raised by wolves.

“I made you breakfast,” Newt announced, his voice a little unsure.

Percy didn’t reply. He felt unreasonably angry with Newt, though the man hadn’t done anything. Maybe he was angry that Newt was making him feel things that he tried so hard to repress, or maybe it was because last night, sleeping next to someone had reminded him of how much he hated to be alone, but that wasn’t fair because he had to be. Maybe it was both of those reasons.

But Percy knew the main reason. The last time he’d allowed himself to have these kinds of feelings it had ended badly. Worse than badly. It had nearly killed him. He wished it had, he’d tried enough times after it had happened. Arthur hadn’t had the option.

“Your arm.. I should-“ Newt began, stepping forward clumsily, but Percy steeled himself, clenching his jaw.

“You should leave me alone,” he snapped, still not looking at him. It made Newt halt in his approach, and Percy closed his eyes. He knew he could still turn this around, keep his stupid mouth shut, go back and have breakfast with Newt. He might even stay with him for the rest of the day, the week, and then where would they be?

In danger. That’s what.

“Percy-“

“I ain’t a fag, Mister Scamander.”

He heard a soft intake of breath from the man stood over him.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Mister Scamander, but I suggest you get the fuck outta here now,” he reopened his eyes, and Newt’s unreadable expression stung more than he could’ve prepared for.

He added, to finalise the deal, “fuckin’ queer.”  
Newt punched him in the face. It took Percy by surprise and he toppled over into the icy water, his hands smacking down onto the sharp stones. And then Newt left.

The bowl of whatever he’d made him sat on a nearby rock, still steaming.

Percy reached his hand up to his face it came away red, and he tasted metal in his mouth. He spat blood into the water and hauled himself back up, groaning a little.

As he pulled his clothes back on it was hard to convince himself that he’d done the right thing. The memory of the fire flashed through his brain, and like a spasm the same feeling of dread washed over him that had engulfed him when he’d first walked up to the burning wreckage, seen the tree in the garden, a loose, dangling piece of rope blowing in the wind, tied around the twisted branch that he had always thought had always stuck out at the wrong angle. His mind tried to drag him back to what had snapped the rope, what was lying beneath the tree on the grass-  
A soft breath on his hand and the press of velvet against his palm brought him back to the present. His cheeks felt wet, and when he sniffed he realised he’d been crying. He scrubbed at his eyes roughly.

Jesse stood beside him by the river, snuffling comfortingly, and nudging under his arm with her huge head. He petted her forehead gently, his hands shaking. He swallowed thickly and leaned into her neck.

Percy shivered, his senses slowly returning to him as he calmed down. He kept his mind purposefully blank, and he focused on the freezing air that was making gooseflesh rise over his skin. He realised he was half naked, and reached for his shirt, but a shout from further down the river drew his attention.

“He’s here!”

Percy recognised the black thoroughbreds with the badly painted red flanks instantly, and he swore loudly, suddenly springing to action as he grabbed hold of Jesse's saddle, attempting to sling his foot over. The giant horse sprang to life, already beginning in a canter, but a rope fastened itself tightly around his ankle and tugged him down hard onto the ground. His bare skin tore under the sudden impact, and he yelled.

He heard Jesse whinny loudly in surprise, followed by heavy thuds that he hoped meant she was galloping away. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else getting their hands on her.

The lasso dragged him, thrashing, towards one of the cowboys, the rope clutched tightly in his leather gloved hands.

“Well, well, Percival Graves,” the Hunter smirked, speaking out of the left side of his mouth due to the cigarette hanging out the right.

The others created a circle around him, and Percy lay back against the stone path, letting out a defeated huff of breath. The foot caught in the lasso was pulled upwards at an awkward angle above the rest of his body, and it lifted his hips off the ground lopsidedly. It was uncomfortable, but he grit his teeth, and spat as close to the thoroughbred's dark hooves as he could.

“Fuck you,” he growled, and the Hunters surrounding him snorted. He tried not to shiver from the cold, and bared his teeth to stop them from chattering.

The cowboy holding the lasso raised an eyebrow carelessly, taking a long drag of his cigarette before casting it off into the river.

“Hogtie the runt, we’ll bring him back alive.”

\---

“No, no, that won’t do. Jensen, go fetch the man a spare shirt. A clean one, preferably,” Gellert sighed heavily at the state of the outlaw they’d brought in. Shirtless, cut up and bruised, and his face was covered in dried blood, as if someone had recently tried to break his nose, although the bounty hunters had sworn they’d barely touched him.

“And what is wrong with his arm? Get that mess bandaged up, amputations are expensive.”

The lawmen seemed hesitant to attend to such a highly wanted criminal as something similar to a guest, but eventually set about binding his arm and finding a shirt. They wiped his face with a wet rag, making him groan. Gellert stood over the bound figure, his own heterochromatic eyes meeting the fierce golden ones of Percival Graves: renowned outlaw, and part of his (although now estranged) brother's gang of petty criminals.

When the lawmen were done he shooed them away, and crouched down in front of the tied up thug. The gag was tied too tightly around his mouth, and the rough fabric cut into his cheeks and the sides of his mouth.

Gellert tutted, and pulled the gag down out of Percival’s mouth and let it hang loose around his neck instead.

Percival was breathing heavily, staring at Gellert with wide, wary eyes, but didn’t speak.

Maybe Gellert preferred that. It certainly beat some of the exhausting loud mouths who passed through his jail cells.

“You’re in real big trouble my friend,” he muttered, and reached out to hold Percival’s chin, but the man bit his finger hard enough to draw blood, and he pulled back with a hiss. The outlaw spat the blood out at him, and Gellert slapped him hard.

He could see the fire behind those golden eyes, watching him like a jaguar watches its keeper as Gellert nursed his bleeding finger, sucking it and wincing a little.

“Sharp fangs you got there puppy,” he spat, and Percival physically recoiled at the pet name.

“I’m not tellin' you where your brother is, or where any of the gang are hidin' out,” the criminal snarled, and added, just for good measure, “You’ll have to kill me first.”

Gellert considered this, but shook his head, chuckling as if Percival had just told him a joke.

“I’m not gonna kill you, Percy,” he smirked, and Percival bared his teeth at the nickname. “No, other people would happily do that for me, wouldn’t they? A man living your kind of lifestyle?”

It was a shot in the dark. Gellert had no idea if Percival Graves was a homosexual, and he hadn’t heard any rumours of it either, but he knew the man was at least aquatinted with the cross-dressing prostitute, Credence Barebone, and had been for some time. It was as good a guess as any, and neither of them could do anything to prove the other wrong if it wasn’t true.

Percival’s pupils dilated a touch. Nothing else changed. Bingo.

“But, I can offer you some sort of protection against those kinds of people, Percy. I myself am not a man of God, I do not look upon others with judgement unless they break my laws. To me there are only law abiding folk, and non law abiding folk. It doesn’t matter to me who you share a bed with, understand?” he watched Percival very carefully, speaking low incase a lawman was lingering outside his office door.

Percival kept the defiant expression on his face, boldly meeting Gellert’s eyes with a challenging glare, his jaw flexing.

“I am not a-“

“Percy, Percy, there’s no point trying to convince me. I don’t care either way. But other people do, and when they find out they’ll hunt you down and skin you alive, do you understand me?” Gellert leaned into the man's personal space, breathing in that sweaty, earthy scent. Percival blinked too fast and let his eyes drop down at the words “hunt you down.”

When he didn’t try to respond, Gellert stood, and paced in a short line in front of the man's bound feet.

There was no talk of anyone trying to hunt Percival Graves down for any reason other than his crimes, but he knew he couldn’t just offer the man his freedom in return for the favour he was about to ask of him. He had to sweeten the deal, even if it wasn’t true.

“So I am willing to offer you protection, and your freedom, if you agree to do one little thing for me. Sound good?” Gellert looked down at him, and Percival shifted as much as he could with his hands bound behind his back.

“Extend that protection to a boy, goes by Credence Barebone, works at the saloon down in Valentine, and a man, calls himself Newt Scamander, wildlife photographer. And I want this bounty off my head too.”

Gellert was amazed at the man's boldness. He dared to make such high demands while bound and bleeding on the floor of a sheriff’s office?

But the thing Percival didn’t seem to count on was Gellert having the ability to lie.

So he agreed.

So when Gellert untied Percival’s hands and feet, he didn’t run, or try to fight. And when Gellert took out his half hard cock from his trousers, the worst thing Percival could do was wrinkle his nose at the sight of it, and glare daggers up at Gellert from his position on the floor.

All things considered, Percival gave a shit blowjob. Gellert liked to play with all of the pretty ones who passed through his jail, spinning them tales of false freedom from the law, and in return all they had to do was make him cum.

He guessed Percival’s terrible gag reflex and fumbling hands were from lack of experience, and at first Gellert found it kind of cute, but then it got boring, so he took over.

He stood up, dug his hands into Percival’s hair to hold him tightly in place. He fucked into his throat hard and fast, and Percival’s hands flew to his thighs, desperately trying to push him away as he gagged repeatedly. Drool started to leak down his chin, and Gellert pulled his hair harder when he saw the choked out tears starting to run down Percival’s cheeks – a natural response to the assault on his airway, but no less invigorating for him to witness.

When Gellert came he pulled out and released over Percival’s face, and the man shoved him away hard, coughing and spluttering. He scrubbed at his face with his sleeves, his soft hair flopping over his forehead prettily. He looked outraged. Gellert smiled, and gestured for him to go.

Percival didn’t need to be told twice, but before he could exit the door Gellert called after him. The glare that Percival threw him was enough to sear skin.

“There are no rumours, Percy. No one thinks you’re a homosexual. No one is coming after you.”

\---

Why Newt had bothered to go into town that day was any man's guess. He’d been so furious will the way Percival had acted, but ashamed at his own behaviour the previous night, and confused because he was sure the man had reciprocated the action, and-

His head had been a complete mess, so he’d decided to do the thing his older brother Theseus always told him to do: he went to the saloon, with every intention of getting absolutely shit-faced.

But he didn’t.

One finger of whiskey and he’d almost vomited at the vile flavour. How did anyone drink this shit?  
Newt really should’ve learnt how to drink at a younger age when everyone else had done, not start now when he was in his thirties.

But as the afternoon wore into evening Newt didn’t leave the bar, instead ordered another drink and stared at it for at least two hours. He thought about everything that had happened that morning, and sighed heavily. He didn’t understand what he’d done wrong, he could’ve sworn he’d read all the signals right. He’d been living this type of life ever since he left home - he knew all the signs, he’d been so careful.

And then a fight had broken out, between two men who could barely stand let alone swing fists, and everyone was shouting and cheering and throwing drinks around all over the place, so Newt got up to leave when the fight moved outside.

He pulled his coat on and tramped down to the back where he’d left his cart by the road, and took a short-cut through the pig pen behind the saloon. Gargling water and wild splashing caught his attention, and he looked up from his boots, alarm suddenly settling in his chest.

The two men from the fight, one holding the other man’s head in the trough of water, forcing it down as the man beneath him struggled for air. Without thinking, Newt ran up behind the drunkard and shoved him hard into the mud, knocking him off kilter. His head bounced limply against the dirt, and he didn’t get up again.

Newt heard him groan. He hoped he was just unconscious.

The man who’d been held under collapsed onto the ground below him, coughing and spluttering and spitting , rubbing his eyes with the backs of his wrists. His face was bright red from lack of air, and he was so drunk that when he tried to stand up he over balanced, and fell straight back down into the mud, making the pigs nearby squeal in fright.

He looked up at Newt, panting for air.

Newt couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

“Percival?”

\---

The cold press of a flannel against his forehead was a welcomed feeling as Percy roused from unconsciousness. The heavy throbbing against his temples was not.

“God fuckin' damnit,” he growled, and his voice was hoarse. His throat ached as though he’d been swallowing rocks. “My head.”

“I’m surprised you’re alive,” came a painfully familiar voice that sent ice down to his stomach.

Percy dared to crack open his eyes. Newt was leant over him, carefully and methodically pressing a wet rag to his temples and over his cheeks. His expression was anything but relieved.

“Mister Scamander, i-“

“Newt. My name is Newt, Percival,” the chestnut haired man almost snapped, and before Percy could reply Newt pressed the lip of a mug to his lower lip, and Percy opened his mouth obediently as a gentle flow was water was tipped in.

He relished it, the burn in his throat easing just a little, enough for him to swallow comfortably.

Apologising was uncomfortable, like it always was. Newt seemed stiff with him for a few days afterwards, but he took care of Percy, kept him watered and well rested. Percy began helping with meal preparation, and even cut firewood and collected water from the well.

It became a unspoken agreement between them – as long as Percy pulled his weight, Newt would let him stay in his home. And it was a nice home indeed. A doctor’s salary was a good one, it seemed.

And, after maybe a week or so, the two began talking comfortably again, and the conversation Percy knew they had to have came up.

Why had he acted the way he had that morning.

Percy didn’t want to go back to that place in his mind, that left him shaking and crying in his sleep, that tormented him with spasms of flashbacks if he thought about it too much, or gazed into a campfire too intently.

“A long time ago, maybe five years or so, I was with someone,” Percy spoke quietly that night while they sat at the kitchen table, Newt’s hand over his, his thumb rubbing gently over his knuckles. It was a habit they’d fallen into, wordlessly, without acknowledgement.

He didn’t mention Arthur’s name. He couldn’t. Not yet. Even after five years it still stung like a fresh wound.

“And we kept it secret. I was with my gang, and he worked at one of the banks in the city. We went to rob it once, and I just.. saw him. I was supposed to kill him, all the workers carried guns and had access to a panic button that sent a direct call to the nearest police station, but I couldn’t. Got myself arrested and all, but he bailed me out. Sort of like a thank you,” Percy was almost mumbling, smiling a little as he watched Newt’s thumb gently stroke his knuckles. Over. And over. And over. It became a soothing rhythm to his story, almost like it wasn’t real.

But it was real. Percy still remembered Arthur’s smile, the way his skin would crease around his eyes when he laughed, his smell-

“What happened to him Percival?” Newt practically whispered, very gently squeezing Percy’s hand to ground him back to the present.

He took a shuddering breath.

“We bought a house together, eventually. Lived away from town, went out separately, even went so far as to get forgeries of our birth certificates so we could convince people we were just two brothers livin' together. But we weren’t careful enough,” he sighed deeply, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Newt didn’t speak this time.

“I don’t know who saw us, or if it was just a hunch, but I came back from town one day and.. the house.. everything was burning,” he kept his eyes closed, the lump in his throat becoming painful to talk around. Newt’s hand squeezed tightly, stopping him from imagining it too clearly. He didn’t want to say what else he saw that day. The tree, where Arthur used to sit and read his book, barefoot with a piece of long grass in his mouth, humming tunelessly to himself. The tree, with the piece of snapped rope tied to it, and that thing, lying beneath it, unmoving, bruised, bloody, the other end of the rope wrapped around his neck-

Newt’s arms fastened around him tightly, and Percy clung to him as if his life depended on it. He forced his mind to go blank, and when he sniffed he realised he’d been crying again. He made Newt’s soft blue jumper wet when he buried his face in it, but Newt said he didn’t care.

To take his mind off the memories, Newt told Percy about how he’d grown up in England with his older brother, how moving here had really opened his eyes to how big the world really is.

Percy listened to him with genuine interest, resting his head on Newt’s shoulder as his nimble fingers carded gently through his hair. He needed a haircut, Newt had gently whispered against the shell of his ear.

That night they slept together, and Percy knew it was what he needed, what he wanted, more than anything, but something wasn’t right.

As he fucked into Newt’s body, holding him so close, while Newt played with his hair, and Percy was buried so deep inside of him, rolling his hips so slowly, so gently – something felt missing.

Perhaps it was the position he wasn’t entirely comfortable with, but even after telling Newt this they tried again the next day, this time with Newt fucking Percy, just as gentle, and things still felt a little.. awkward.

They didn’t try it again, not for at least a month. In that time, things easily fell into a routine – Percy looked after the horses (trying very hard not to worry about his own out there on the Plains by herself, hoping she’d gone feral rather than someone else taking control of her), chopped wood, fixed up anything that needed fixing, while Newt cooked, and cleaned, and frequented town.

According to Newt, Percy’s wanted posters hadn’t been taken down. Sheriff Grindelwald hadn’t removed the Bounty over his head. It made his blood boil to think of him, about what he wished he’d done to him instead of just mindlessly obeying, so Percy just tried very hard to avoid thinking about that day at all.

He stayed in Newt’s house during the day or wandered around the outside area until he reached the path, and then would turn back again. It became quite boring, and even when Newt returned home, although completely enamored with the man now, he still felt like something was missing. As if they needed something else to complete this strange little couple they’d gotten themselves into.

And then Percy realised what it was.

He and Newt were kissing, like they did a lot, away from any windows in the corridor where the stairs were. It was lazy with tongue, and Percy held Newt’s body up against the wooden paneled walls as if he weighed nothing, the skinnier man clinging to him, moaning into the kiss.

“God Percival, can’t we try again? It might be different this time,” Newt panted against his lips, squeezing his thighs around Percy’s hips. They both let out a groan when Percy experimentally ground their tented crotches together, and Percy squeezed his eyes shut.

The night he’d spent with Credence Barebone flashed through his mind, completely unprovoked. Percy reopened his eyes suddenly, pressing his forehead against Newt’s with a sudden urgency.

“I know why it doesn’t feel right,” he breathed, and gently eased Newt’s legs off his hips.

The taller man raised an eyebrow, keeping his arms draped around Percy’s neck.

“Why’s that then?”

“Credence Barebone. We need Credence Barebone.”

\---

Credence let himself out the back door to relieve himself. He wasn’t supposed to pee anywhere but the outhouse, incase someone saw him, but it was almost pitch black round the back of the saloon, and he really needed to go.

He’d barely tucked himself away and sorted his skirts out when a man with the lower half of his face covered by a bandana stepped out from the shadows, and Credence almost jumped out of his skin.

“Hey, we don’t like anonymous clients here sir, take the mask off,” he frowned, shaking his head at the newcomer but backing away hastily as the man drew nearer. Credence reached behind him for the door knob, panic starting to rise in his throat.

Was this it? Was he going to die like this, in a puddle of his own urine, dressed as a woman? It really wasn’t the death he’d imagined, but maybe if he closed his eyes tight enough it wouldn’t hurt so bad-

“Credence, it’s me,” a gruff whisper and two thick hands enclosing around his biceps made Credence squeak, and he dared peek open one eye.

Percival Graves himself, holding his bandana down just long enough for Credence to see his face before he hid in it again, looking around quickly.  
Credence relaxed, smirking as he rested his hand over his own heart, feigning shock.

“Oh Percy, you gave me an awful fright there. Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s not polite to sneak up on a lady?” Credence purred, his hand coming up to play with a strand of Percy’s hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Your hair's getting real long cowboy.”

“Newt says it needs cutting,” Percy huffed behind his mask, watching Credence carefully. Credence frowned a little, and caught his lip between his teeth. He felt as though he was being tested for something.

“Newt.. Scamander?” he offered, quirking a brow. It was the only man by the name of Newt he’d ever heard of, though how in God’s name Percy knew of him was any man's guess.

The visible part of Percy’s face relaxed and his eyes smiled as he nodded. A second figure stepped out of the shadows, this one without a face covering.

Sure enough, Newt Scamander, the nice Englishman who’d taught him to read and write as a boy, stood there, silhouetted slightly in the moonlight.

“Oh Newt! It's so nice to see you! How's life treating you?” Credence beamed at him, gently peeling himself from Percy to embrace Newt. Newt’s arms automatically curled around his waist, hands settling on his hips as they spoke – always such a gentleman.

“Good, thank you Credence, you’ve grown up nicely,” the freckled man smiled warmly at him in that gentle, full lipped smile he did. The last time he’d laid eyes on Credence he must’ve only been about thirteen. Newt had been perhaps twenty five, and it looked as though he hadn’t aged a day.

“I could say the same for you, sweetheart,” he purred, and rested one hand delicately over Newt’s heart, the other he outstretched to Percy, who took it, and, to Credence’s giddy delight, kissed the back of it.

“So what are you two fine gentlemen doing coming to see a silly little thing like me hm?” his voice was teasing, his mood high. He’d missed Percy dearly – ever since the bounty on his head had risen higher than $100 he’d not come to visit.

“We’ve come to offer you something,” Newt began, looking to Percy as if for guidance.  
Credence felt his stomach flip. He bit his lip. For once he kept his mouth shut. Patiently waiting.

“Would you join us, at Newt’s house?” Percy slid his arm around Credence’s waist from behind so that he was sandwiched between the two of them.

Credence paused, and pulled away a little so he could face them both. He held one of their hands in one of his own – his right holding Newt’s left, and his left hold Percy’s right.

“What? You mean, now? Forever?” he couldn’t quite fathom what they were suggesting, and his words sounded stupid. How would they accommodate him? He wasn’t exactly the safest housemate to have: the saloon barely got by without being firebombed every week simply because they declared him female. And because he was a prostitute. He worked there, they gave him protection in return for half of his earnings. And the occasional half hearted blow job.

But imagining a life in a normal house, with two normal people who wanted normal things from him? It felt as far away as the North Pole.

Credence couldn’t imagine earning his keep any other way.

“For as long as you want,” Percy squeezed his hand, blinking quickly. Credence could tell that under the bandana he was chewing his lower lip. Anxious. Always so unsure.

It sounded far-fetched in its execution, but since when did Credence ever think things through before he jumped into them? Hell, the whole reason he’d become a cross-dressing prostitute in the first place was to spite his dead mother, going against every Bible verse she’d ever drilled into his thick skull.

If he thought hard enough he could still remember every word to them. If he clenched his hands tight enough if he could still feel where the belt had split the skin.

So Credence said yes.

“Oh, and Percy, did you lose Jesse? She came here without you about a month or so ago, not been eating right since. You really ought to take her home,” he added.

Percy was thrilled.

\---

It was Sunday morning. The sun was starting to gain some heat from the summer season finally picking up (better late than never, Newt liked to say), and it shone through the window panes and pooled in thick golden ripples over the bed. It highlighted curves of soft, bare flesh, slowed the languorous movements right down. Everything was so lazy.

Deliciously lazy. 

And Percy felt whole.

He held Newt’s little body against his own, back to chest, buried inside him to the hilt. His thrusts were more sloppy rolls of his hips, making the bed creak in a slow, idle pattern that really could’ve been anything.

Credence was pressed up behind him, two fingers deep inside Percy, the stretch and the burn and consistent teasing of that spot making the muscles on his thighs quiver. Credence pulled his head back by his hair, gentle as he could possibly be, and slid his tongue into Percy’s mouth.

It was perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I call this one the ‘can you tell I couldn’t be bothered to write anymore smut at the end’


End file.
